


No Excuses

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amortentia, Community: firewhiskeyfic, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sibling Incest, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29646336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks
Summary: James is drugged, yadda yadda, they ~have to~ yadda yadda. (Please excuse the drunk summary, but it's pretty accurate.)
Relationships: Albus Severus Potter/James Sirius Potter
Comments: 27
Kudos: 99





	No Excuses

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the February 2021 edition of Firewhiskey Fic and the prompt, 'Amortentia'. I tagged for underage, but Albus isn't underage in England; I just thought it best to over-warn. Also, there's a lust potion, so there are major consent issues because of that. Do mind the warnings.
> 
> As this was for FWF, I was pretty drunk when I wrote it, but I tried to clean it up properly here. If you'd like the rip-roaring drunk version where I vehemently curse my own use of italics, you can find that [here at the comm](https://firewhiskeyfic.dreamwidth.org/46411.html).

This was not a normal red currant rum. That’s what James is thinking as he finishes it, downing the last few delicious drops and licking his lips. He probably shouldn’t have finished it, come to think. But it tasted _really good_. 

The pub swims dizzily before him, tilting, righting itself, and then blurring again. He grips the back of a chair for balance. 

“Oi!”

And apparently that chair belongs to a rather pissy Ravenclaw he sort of recognises as someone he might have snogged after a match once? It’s hard to say; she has more than one face now.

Which is not right. He’s only had two drinks. 

Albus. He needs to find his brother.

James shakes his head to clear it, but it just produces more lights and lurking shadows and… well, it doesn’t help matters. And matters are becoming rather, uh, _achingly_ clear. 

He stumbles through the pub, wishing he’d never come out to Hogsmeade tonight. He knew better. He has a match tomorrow. He shouldn’t be drinking. You never know when a scout for the Wasps or the Cannons (shit though they may be) might be observing from the stands. And Merlin knows he doesn’t have the marks for a real job. He’s not Lily. And he’s certainly not Al, genius wizard that he is. Though, if he’s honest, Al has more problems than he can count, and James wouldn’t wish that on him in a million years. 

Nor would he wish his current state on his worst enemy, and he’s starting to seriously suspect foul play. He eyes Thom Zabini at the table in the corner and the cruel smirk that seems to sit on his face at all times. Zabini winks at him but then turns his attention back to his crew.

James, wobbling now, starting to breathe heavily, makes his way to the booth in the far corner… the one with the smart kids, the goth kids. His brother.

“Albus, I…” he says, interrupting some runes prodigy in the middle of a diatribe about the dye they use on certain igneous rocks, of all things.

And since James tends not to use Al’s full name, like, ever, it gets his attention. Al’s in the middle of the semi-circular booth (which befits him… to be centred like that; Al’s brilliant; he deserves friends and accolades and all the things that come easily to James but that Al seems to have to fight for, or lacks). But since he’s boxed in, he has to budge people up to get out. Which doesn’t exactly work quickly, and maybe it’s the look on James’s face, maybe it’s the sweat rolling down his brow, maybe it’s the urgency in his gaze, the way he grips the table, the way his eyes plead with his little brother, but Al gives up trying to get people to move and simply crawls under the table and out the other side.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Um, can we talk… over there?”

And who the fuck knows where over there is, but Al follows. He comes where James calls. Thank God. Because James thinks he’s never needed anything more.

They’re near the back exit, next to the magical jukebox that’s turning out all the Muggle hits that are so popular of late. James leans on it and looks at his brother in the technicolor glow. “I think I’ve been… compromised.”

At this, Al’s lips quirk. “Have you been watching Dad’s spy movies again? You know you don’t actually work for the American CIA.”

“No, I know. That’s not…”

“It’s not what?”

James meets Al’s eyes. Which is the worst thing. Just the worst possible thing. Because Al’s eyes are beautiful, deep and green, like a forest, like being underwater. And James is underwater right now. He’s bloody drowning.

“I think someone drugged me.”

Now he’s concerned. Properly so. “What makes you think that?”

James can’t help it: He glances down at his own hard dick and back up.

Al follows his gaze, his own getting, mortifyingly, stuck there a moment. Which only makes it all _so. much. worse._

“Wh—” Al starts. 

“Up here,” James grits out, and Albus’s eyes return to his face.

“What is it”—he gulps—“do you think?”

“Best guess? I mean, I’m not a potioneer; you are, but…”

“Amortentia?”

James winces. “I mean, yeah, but… more, like…”

“A lust potion?”

“Probably?” He bites his lip. “God, it’s getting worse. Why is it getting worse, Al?”

And bloody hell, just saying his name makes James’s dick throb. 

“Love, and lust, potions… tend to accumulate, or… accelerate, until they’re—”

“Christ, speak English.”

“I am speaking English, you dickswab. You’re just too dumb to—”

“Oh fuck… Albus…” He’d give anything to reach down and squeeze his dick. It’s hard as hell.

“Is it worse?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Just now? It’s worse?”

“YES, dammit, Al, why—?”

But Albus has stepped closer. “How about now?”

“What?” James gasps, nearly in a panic now. “Is it worse? Yes! It’s worse. Why would—?”

He steps closer still. “And now?”

“What are you…? Jesus, Al. I want… I want…”

“Okay. It’s okay,” Al says soothingly. And why the _fuck_ should that tone of voice make James’s cock _ache_?

“Shh,” Al murmurs. “It’s alright.” Then, when James shudders, some precursor, a tremor so strong he’s afraid he just might… that he very well might… Al takes his hand and whispers it, “James.” 

His eyes fly to his brother’s intent gaze. He frowns. It’s not… it shouldn’t be… “Albus…”

“It’s alright,” Al says. And then, surreptitiously, covertly, he steps in even closer, right there in the bloody bar, and he palms James’s hard cock through his jeans. He squeezes it.

“Oh my God,” James exhales. No. It can’t be. They can’t.

But Albus massages his dick, slowly, fuck _expertly_ , and James closes his eyes tight, tries not to like it, to need it.

“Let me,” Albus says.

And there’s no getting around it: This is why he sought him out. Because he had to.

He bloody had to.

“Jamie,” Al says. And then he takes James’s hand again, abandoning his prick so that James moans in complaint before he can stop himself. Thank fuck for Muggle music pouring out of the speakers at a terrible volume.

His brother leads him, drags him, toward the bathrooms. And God help him, James goes.

They’re in the stall, lock thrown.

“Al. I can’t.”

“But you need to.” Al’s already on his flies, already ripping into the button, the zip. His hand… his delicate, beautiful hand… shoved down into James’s pants.

“Oh fuck.”

Fingers, wrapped around.

“But you’re… you’re my…”

“Just let it happen,” Al whispers, starting to pull on James’s cock.

“I can’t,” he pleads—a whine, because it feels _so good_.

“You can,” Al says. Then, “You will.”

James’s face screws up, appalled. He’s not ready to give in. And yet his body already has. He’s thrusting minutely into his brother’s fist.

“That’s it,” Al croons softly, his quiet breath warm against James’s jaw. 

“I don’t,” James tries. “I don’t want…”

Al rips his hand away, provoking a truly miserable response. “And yet you found me,” Albus reminds him. “You came for _me._ ”

“Because I already love you,” James says helplessly. “I… I just needed…”

“Yes,” Al says to him, hand held tortuously away. “You needed me. _You_ needed _me_.”

His heart thuds dangerously in his chest. His erection strains toward his brother. In this cold, sterile room, locked away in a dirty bathroom stall, he stares into Albus’s eyes, sees the determination there, the resolve and the… fire. Albus has always had a fire.

And James _burns_.

He snatches for his brother’s hand and shoves it back between his legs, wrapping Albus’s nimble fingers around his cock. “Finish me then,” he says sickly. 

But though Albus smiles at him—and fuck, that is not right; that is not okay… what he feels, seeing it—he doesn’t wank James off.

Instead he sinks to his knees, tugs James’s jeans and pants down, and then he leans in and _breathes_ against James’s stiff cock.

“Fucking…” James exhales. “No,” he croaks. But then, at the first lap of Al’s tongue, at the first tantalizing breath of heat from his mouth… “Hurry up.”

If this is going to happen, and it appears that it will, James just needs it over with. The drug pulses through his system, keeping time with the crash and reverberation of his heart, and every moment it goes unsatisfied, a dull pain chokes him, steals his breath, and makes him want all the harder.

And what he wants is his brother on his knees before him.

What he wants, undeniably, is his Albus.

“Al,” he sighs, the name a pain to him, an admission he can’t stomach. And he doesn’t. As Albus pulls his erection in line with his beautiful lips, James turns his face away. The stall wall is cold against his cheek as he closes his eyes and feels that hot mouth envelope him fully.

It’s not a decision—it’s not even impulse—to grab him by the hair like he does, the soft strands strangled in his twisting fingers. Albus dives down, slowly, and takes James’s cock into his wet mouth, his gentle, sweet mouth. “God,” James groans as he, on a rush of breath, starts to thrust.

The drug drains out of him. It happens so fast, so perfunctorily. He came in his brother’s mouth, down his throat (because God, he was _so deep_ when it happened), and now he sags against the wall, finished. Wrecked.

Albus pulls off, breathless. James stole his breath from him. He rises from the floor. “Is that better?” he breathes. 

James frowns through his panting. “No, it’s not better.”

Albus presses into him, body to body. A warmth he doesn’t want. Can’t live without. It’s like when they were boys and they’d fall asleep together on the sofa, curled up in one another, like it was nothing.

Albus speaks, a moist gust against his neck, time suspended, “Was it really so bad?”

And that’s the rub. That’s the shit of it. It wasn’t.

It was good.

It was better than.

James shoves his brother away from him. He stays at arm’s length, James’s fingers skimming his taut stomach.

And below… God, he’s so hard.

“Albie,” James pleads. Like it will do anything. Change anything.

And it won’t. He can see in Al’s face that it won’t. He sees what he always sees there… what he’s tried not to. What he’s denied.

“It’s not going away, is it?” he asks, dick still hanging from his pants, an obscenity, something he can’t and doesn’t want to account for.

The look on Albus’s face tells him he doesn’t have to.

“James,” Albus says.

But before he can say anything else, James takes him, moves him, flips their perspectives so that Al is against the wall, and it’s James dropping to his knees.

Albus’s black jeans come open like a charm. So easy. A bloom. A surrender. Though he’s already there. James knows that now. He sucked James’s cock like he’d dreamed of it. Like James knows he has, in the darkest of his hours… in that time outside of time, when he can pretend it’s something other than what it is. A distraction. A deviance. A projection.

Anything but something real. Something he needs.

He looks up. Sees his brother’s face, unraveled. He’s falling apart for the very _idea_ of James’s mouth on his cock. Which is enough. More than enough. James sinks down on his length like he’s taking a Catholic’s communion. 

“JamesJamesJames,” comes from his brother’s lips. His back leaned against the stall wall. And of course that’s when someone rattles the lock. James doesn’t care. For the first time in this life, James doesn’t five a fuck. He’s sucking the only cock that matters. He going down, and he’s loving it: the taste, the plunge down his throat. It’s the first time he hasn’t given a sodding shit what anybody thinks. He’s flying for himself now.

He grabs Albus’s skinny thighs. And he deep-throats him.

Vaguely, like another self, another sense, he can hear the beat of the music from the other room, hushed. But they can’t be bothered. Whoever’s at the door… fuck them. It’s not important. 

This is. 

This always has been.

Albus groans as he comes, as he bucks against James’s face, his cock stroking over James’s tongue. James indulges in a sigh, soft and reverent. He submits to a feeling he so rarely even acknowledges. And it’s sick… that the drug has done its work… that’s it’s gone. And still here he is, choking on his brother’s flushed cock and loving it.

Albus shakes against the metal wall. James slowly laves his cock. HIs knees hurt. His soul hurts. There is no excuse for this.

Except for what he sees now on his brother’s face. 

Elation. Some circular confusion unravelled into a linear trajectory. An arrow, true and unerring. And here he thought everything about this was in error. Albus’s face tells otherwise.

“Stand up,” Albus says. And when James does, “Kiss me.”

“Albie…”

But the protest dies on his lips as Albus drags him in. 

Al’s mouth on his, _opening_ to his, warm and inviting, is a drug in and of itself. 

“Do you know,” Al asks, “how long?”

“Don’t,” James says, on the edge of some realisation, something atrocious. He’d rather remain blind to it. Would rather never catch a Snitch again to avoid this one.

“Forever,” Al says, confirming every fear he’s ever had. 

Al leans in, slender frame coming willing into his arms, and James lets it happen. They kiss, Al’s mouth hot on his own. 

When he can no longer stand how good it feels to have Al there, heart beating against James’s chest, he relinquishes his grip, moving back. “I shouldn’t have,” he says. “I never should have…”

“And yet I’ve always wanted you to,” Albus tells him. “What do we do about that?”

James blinks. His brother’s t-shirt clings to his chest. When did that happen? When did this heat overcome them? 

“Someone drugged me,” James explains, dropping his gaze. There’s a ringing in his ears now, a truth sitting there baldly, wicked and wonderful.

“I don’t have such a convenient excuse.”

James forces himself to meet Al’s eyes. He palms his face. Because this is his little brother, and he loves him, even when he hates him.

Albus takes his hand and gently moves it away. “I helped you,” he says. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

He pushes past James, opens the stall door.

“Albie.” 

Al turns. It doesn’t seem possible that they just sucked each other off. But James can see it on Al’s face. The blush. The shine to his lips.

“How could you?” James asks, throat tight as a fist.

“How could I what?” So innocent, nothing shown. He’s an open book. (He’s a bloody potioneer.)

James shakes his head. “Nothing.” The bitterness, he swallows. It leaves only the aftertaste and the warm place in his chest, festering.

“Will you be alright?”

He can feel it… the drug drained away. His body his own again. His heart… is another matter. 

_You tell me,_ he thinks but can’t say.

“I’m fine.”

Al nods. “Good.” His sad smile encompasses everything. 

Just… everything.

James’s mind can’t hold it all.

And he doesn’t have to. Albus leaves. James watches him go like the tide, pulling out to sea as though its gifts are all gone, as though that last lap was the only one.

If only he’d known.


End file.
